Christmas in Virgin River
I hadn’t planned to write a book about Patrick Riordan, the youngest brother in the Riordan clan. After all, he was a fighter pilot stationed on the East Coast, nowhere near Virgin River. He had maybe twenty lines in all the preceding books and I didn’t know him very well. But my readers are relentless—they lay claim to any character who walks on stage in Virgin River, and Patrick had been seen there a time or two.
I know writers who claim to dream whole books; I know writers who say their characters talk to them. Oh, what I’d give… But, alas, I talk to the characters and not the other way around. And I talk with my fingers on the keys. I say, this is who you are, where you came from, what you need and what you’re up against. This is the sound of your voice, the texture of your cheek, the weight of your hand. Come on, Patrick, come on! Come to life for me!
Finally, finally I saw him. Of course, he’s fit and handsome—he’s a Riordan. He had never given anyone any trouble, but now he has issues. Problems. Tough history to overcome. Needs…and most certainly he needed a good woman, someone with whom he could see the future. Someone who would more than appreciate—and share—his passions. And he certainly didn’t need all the hokey sentimentality of Christmas, the massive gatherings of family, the endless dinners. Especially not now that he’s found the perfect woman, a woman who makes him feel brand-new when he lavishes his attention on her, and only her….
Thanks to my relentless readers I think I’m in love again. It’s definitely going to be My Kind of Christmas.